Letters (2)
The last letter I wrote was about a year ago, in early March last year. A time that today seems so far away, that sometimes I feel like if it never really happen. A period of my life so different, in the sense of the feelings going through my heart and mind, that today is hard to believe it was merely a year ago.
A letter sent to someone with all the passion, sentiment, love and tenderness that any human being could ever put into words. There was not a single "I love you" or shit like that, but a text so powerful that it spelled "I love you" in so many different ways that prompted her to call me in tears.
Tears of emotion, love, surprise and happiness. Tears of anger due to our physical separation; tears of lust, passion and cravings for me. Tears that also had those words that neither of us dare to spoke, words that spelled a very clear "it's over". Tears for what it was, but could never be; of what could have been -and was-, but will never be. Tears that mirror our hearts, our past, but also our future: a future where there's no "us".
Tears that were sweep away with a Kleenex and tossed away.
A letter putted, later that night, in a little box of memories; putted on top of the other memories, but once closed and stored deep inside her desk, it remained unopen. Later on it got caught in the middle of past memories and present ones; a letter pushed slowly towards the bottom of the box, becoming a past in itself, a distant memory. If it prompted tears in its hey day, it would just bring a cute smile these days, if fully remembered.
Once that box is closed and the drawer shut, I wonder what goes on inside it; what's going on inside that little box with all those letters and memories . . . Would they talk about, would they share their own particular stories and feelings? Would they end up arguing about who's more right and whose sentiments were more pure? Would they have fist fights in the darkness of the closed drawer, different letters taking sides as they see it fits their own interest?
What I do believe is that my letter, that last letter that I wrote, has been involved in a lot of arguments and fights with the other letters in the box; not just fist fights, as mine will use its chain, hose, knife, steel bar, broken glass bottle, baseball bat, ear biting and whatever it takes to make its point . . .
. . . and to become the undefeated holder of the unified Heavy Weight Championship Tittle inside that box filled with letters!
A letter sent to someone with all the passion, sentiment, love and tenderness that any human being could ever put into words. There was not a single "I love you" or shit like that, but a text so powerful that it spelled "I love you" in so many different ways that prompted her to call me in tears.
Tears of emotion, love, surprise and happiness. Tears of anger due to our physical separation; tears of lust, passion and cravings for me. Tears that also had those words that neither of us dare to spoke, words that spelled a very clear "it's over". Tears for what it was, but could never be; of what could have been -and was-, but will never be. Tears that mirror our hearts, our past, but also our future: a future where there's no "us".
Tears that were sweep away with a Kleenex and tossed away.
A letter putted, later that night, in a little box of memories; putted on top of the other memories, but once closed and stored deep inside her desk, it remained unopen. Later on it got caught in the middle of past memories and present ones; a letter pushed slowly towards the bottom of the box, becoming a past in itself, a distant memory. If it prompted tears in its hey day, it would just bring a cute smile these days, if fully remembered.
Once that box is closed and the drawer shut, I wonder what goes on inside it; what's going on inside that little box with all those letters and memories . . . Would they talk about, would they share their own particular stories and feelings? Would they end up arguing about who's more right and whose sentiments were more pure? Would they have fist fights in the darkness of the closed drawer, different letters taking sides as they see it fits their own interest?
What I do believe is that my letter, that last letter that I wrote, has been involved in a lot of arguments and fights with the other letters in the box; not just fist fights, as mine will use its chain, hose, knife, steel bar, broken glass bottle, baseball bat, ear biting and whatever it takes to make its point . . .
. . . and to become the undefeated holder of the unified Heavy Weight Championship Tittle inside that box filled with letters!
Jean-Francois was drunk at 9:48 AM
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